Storm

Kansas City had a beautiful thunderstorm come through a few days ago. It was exactly what I think of when I picture a perfect thunderstorm. First you have days of warm, sticky humidity, when you don't know whether to put on a light jacket or sweater because of the slight chill, or to take off the jacket because it's just too clammy to have anything too close. Then, the wind comes. Clouds start rolling in from the southwest, starting off wispy and light, then slowly billowing to epic heights. And as the towers of fluff move overhead, the world suddenly goes eery dark, made even more foreboding by the streetlights turn on in the middle of the afternoon. Then you hear it...far in the distance...a quiet rumbling. You pass it off as a truck on the not-to-distant highway, but then you hear it again...a little closer...a little longer... Soon come the first pitter-patter of rain on the windows. Then...the storm hits! Raindrops as big as your fist, drowning out all other noise as it attacks the rooftops with gusto. People huddle in their cars or in doorways, waiting...praying for a break in the salvo to possibly make it inside (or out) without falling prey to the torrent flooding down onto the world.  Then just as you brace yourself to run into the melee - blinding light! Your breath and the very blood in your veins pauses in expectation as the world stops and you begin to count...one one-thousand....two one-thousand...three one-thousand...rumble, grumble, Bellow, CRASH! And a fireworks display better than any 4th of July celebration begins. It's awe inspiring in it's deadly intensity, leaving you feeling both terrified at the sheer power and yet thrilled at the magnitude of it's beauty. At any moment, every moment, another flash and crash, slowly catching up to each other till they happen simultaneously on the street opposite. Then as suddenly as it began, the rage of the storm begins to wear itself out. The one one-thousands slowly grow farther apart, the rain slowly gives up the fight. And there, behind the chaos and strife...a cool, gentle breeze. You close your eyes and take a slow, deep breath. This is what you've been waiting for: the release of stifling air pressure; the scent of fresh, wet grass (or pavement, depending on your taste in scents); the lackadaisical meandering of a breeze following in it's passionate brother's wake, gently bringing a smile to your face and life to your heart.

...And then you realize that this is a metaphor for life sometimes, and you can't help but praise God for the flash/CRASHes, because you know the cool breeze is coming. Just hang on, hope, and praise. Stand in awe of the storm while it's crashing around you; I promise, the aftermath will be worth so much more. (and don't worry, I've been preaching this to myself for the last week. Still storming, but the sunset is spectacular!)

Chosen

Most people in church go on and on about how crafty and sly the devil is. It's right there in Genesis, the first time we see the devil show up as a character: "Now the serpent was the most cunning of all the animals..." But what people may not realize is that God is cleverer than that sly ole devil. I mean, He's God, He created Lucifer in the first place. The fallen angel's problem was that he thought he was better than God was (Ha!). But I know that in the face of my strongholds and lies that tend to plague my life, I forget that God is more crafty. For example...

Today I was rereading one of my favorite books: Celebration of Discipline by Richard  Foster. In the chapter on the discipline of meditation, Foster describes one way that people can use their imaginations to picture themselves with Jesus, walking with Him on the beach in Galilee, sitting and talking with Him in the gospel stories. So I decided to try it. I closed my eyes and started to daydream. But this time, instead of my normal time-wasting daydreams, I chose to daydream about me and Jesus.

Now, this is where God got clever. See, Satan really didn't like the idea that I may realize that I can daydream about Jesus instead of all of the other unhealthy daydreams he likes to feed me. So I'm picturing myself on the beach, looking over at the crowd of disciples and Jesus...when the thought runs through me, heart, soul, and mind: "Jesus wouldn't want me over there with Him."

"What?! How is that God being clever? Isn't that the enemy attacking with lies?" Well, yes, the enemy was telling me a lie; but the thing is, Satan's been telling me that lie for so long now, but this was the first time I actually heard it. It was as if I thought it loud enough that it interrupted my daydream like a slap in the face. Up till now, it's been a lie that has wormed it's way into my mind and heart softer than a whisper. It's always just been a feeling, a suggestion, a hint of an idea. But this time, the enemy got so freaked out by what I was about to do that he forgot himself and practically shouted it. And then it was almost as if God cupped His hand to His ear and said, "Oh, wait, what...what was that? You were telling My daughter a lie? Did you hear that, Dear One? The enemy was telling you a LIE." And then God smirked, cause I heard it and understood. (ok, maybe God didn't smirk, He doesn't really need to. It was more likely a pointed look at Satan saying, "BACK OFF, SHE'S MINE!!!")

And I realized (as Satan ran off with his tail between his legs) that for so long I have been under the assumption that I'm just a tag-a-long, a burden, an extra mouth to feed in the crowd just wanting a glimpse of Jesus. I don't want just a glimpse of Him, I want Him. But I've believed that my presence would just burden Him, that I'd be underfoot, and that He'd feel pressured to make time for me in His already hectic schedule of disciples clamouring for attention. So I backed away, loving Him from a distance, but ignoring any advances He made towards me. "It's alright, I know You're busy. Don't feel that You need to spend time with me to keep up an appearance. You're tired; go, sleep, I'll just love You from over here." If Jesus had really been around, that's what I would've done. Just sit back, afraid to approach for fear of overwhelming Him, afraid to find out that I would actually be a burden, that He would say, "Sara, I'm just too tired right now, can we get coffee maybe in a few weeks?"

Or worse...afraid of finding out that I would just be another face in the crowd. Unknown. Unrecognized. Unloved.

There was another woman like that in the Bible. She actually could've gotten some serious repercussions from touching Jesus, as she was by Jewish law unclean. She'd been unclean for 12 years. Can you imagine...not being able to touch anyone for 12 years for fear of making them unclean as well? Granted, they would only be unclean for a week, but it probably wouldn't make her any friends if she kept touching people. So when she heard about Jesus, and knew in her heart that He could heal her, she didn't want to create a fuss, she didn't want Him or anyone else to even know that she touched Him. She was content to remain a hidden unseen face in the crowd.

But, like me, God did not let her go unnoticed. He stopped mid-stride, turned to look for her, giving her the opportunity to dare and take that first step forward towards Him, and then He called her "Daughter." (Mark 5:24-34). I don't think I would've heard anything else after that. I would've been too overwhelmed. I was just chosen by the One powerful enough to heal, to redeem, to set free, to send the devil fleeing. He stopped just for me. I'm not just a face in the crowd, a mouth to feed, a block on the calendar.

I'm the one He walks towards up the beach, holds out His hand and asks-with a hopeful smile and twinkle in His eyes, "Sara, come with Me?"

How could I say no?

Climbing and Falling

Once upon a time there was a little boy who loved climbing. He climbed everything, the counters, the tables, the dressers, the bookshelves, even the parents! Then one day, his parents decided to let him find other things to climb and sent him outside to the back yard, and there, the little boy discovered trees. There wasn't a day when he was begging to go outside and climb his trees, even in the rain and freezing cold winter snow. And because his parents loved him so, they bundled him up dryly and tightly and let him climb (if only for a little while, so he wouldn't catch cold).

Then one day, the little boy had a play date with the little girl next door. He decided to show her his favorite climbing tree. He led her to the backyard and started climbing up the tall maple tree. When he looked down, the little girl was still standing at the bottom. "Why aren't you climbing?" the little boy asked. "I'm afraid I'm going to fall!" said she. Falling? The little boy was puzzled. "It's ok, come on up!" So the little girl climbed. But she was not as tall as the little boy and could not reach the branches he could. She gave a little jump...and fell. The little boy was stunned. He had never fallen before, and had never seen his dad or even his mom fall when they climbed with him. But there was the little girl on the ground crying fiercely from her scrapes and bruises.

The next day, the little boy's mom went outside to call the little boy in for lunch. But he wasn't in his favorite tree. He wasn't in any tree. After a few minutes, his mom figured out he wasn't even outside. So she went back inside and found him sitting on the floor next to his bed. "Little One," she said, "why aren't you upside?" (this is what they called playing outside in the trees). The little boy was quiet for a few moments, and then whispered, "because I don't want to fall down."
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From when I was born to roughly 8 years old, my family went to a teeny tiny baptist church just down the street in our teeny tiny town in upstate New York. I loved the pews, and the hymns, and the centuries-old gravestones in the back yard. It was all I knew about church and about God. But my parents grew restless. They didn't feel...alive. It was just the same old routine week after week, no change, no growing, no challenge to it any more. So we moved to another church, farther away, in a bigger "city" (which meant it had traffic lights and the speed limit was over 35).

This church was so completely the opposite of our little baptist church! ("Daddy, what's that?" "It's an electric guitar, Sweet Heart." "Oh...What's that?") We found ourselves in the middle of a charismatic church in the early '90's, which for those of you who are familiar with it was the beginning of the "Toronto Blessing" as some people called it. People would raise their hands, talk in funny baby talk, dance with banners, and stranger yet, fall down on the floor shaking.

Eventually, my younger brother and sister started "giving in" to the weirdness of the church, but being the oldest with the most memories of how things used to be, I didn't like it at all. I wanted to go back to the pews and ole Mrs. Forrey pounding out the hymns on the organ. Eventually, both my siblings got baptized, but I wouldn't even raise my hands in church during worship. I would stand up, because Mom and Dad made me, but I wasn't about to let them see me give in to everything else.

One night, we were having children's church down in the basement while the parents had church upstairs. I'm not sure what went on upstairs, if it was mirroring everything that happened to us or not, but the Holy Spirit came and visited the kids. I don't remember much of what led up to it, but what I vividly remember was sitting next to my brother, who was shaking on the ground with his eyes half closed and muttering under his breath. I was terrified! I thought he was having a seizure or something. Then one of the teachers came over and said, "He's being slain in the Spirit. Isn't it wonderful!" It wasn't wonderful. I was seriously frightened. Not necessarily about Adam's well-being (kids can sense when grown-ups are and aren't concerned), but I was suddenly really, really scared of the Holy Spirit. If He makes your body do all those things in public, I was definitely not going to get close to Him!

Looking back, I have to give my teachers some grace. Hearing other people's accounts of those several years of "revival" that happened all over the U.S., I've come to realize that the adults weren't really sure what was going on either. Everything was new to them too. So they couldn't explain it to us children who saw and were frightened. But the result of that is now a generation of young adults who are still hesitant when it comes to the Holy Spirit. I've been baptized now (although it was several years after we moved from that church and New York out to Kansas City to be a part of Metro Vineyard Fellowship), I've walked on purpose with God for over 15 years, and can not imagine existing in a world where He isn't part of my life. But any time I think about the Spirit aspect of His Person, and I still partially close off my heart and tell Him with trepidation: "Please, no."

The problem is, most of the time - if I'm not thinking about it - I am open to Him and tell Him "Yes!" Because I cannot be myself without Him. He is my genius, my voice, my smile, my joy, my compassion, my  "don't you mess with my friends" fierce loyalty and protection, my hope, my heart, my life. Without the Holy Spirit, I am like the little child whose sole purpose and design in life is to climb...sitting in fear on the floor next to her bed.

So, Spirit, how do we do this? How can I climb again?